


Cry Havoc

by little_abyss



Series: Sleeping Dogs [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Animal Play, Biting, Blood, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Prison Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:44:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4332585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen pays a visit to Samson in his cell after the Inquisitor decides he should serve the Inquisition; some things have changed, and some things are still the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry Havoc

**Author's Note:**

> A big, glorious, hand-waving thank you to the evil incarnate that is [quiteanerdling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/quiteanerdling/pseuds/quiteanerdling) for beta-ing this, my first Sullen fic. Also, a big, glorious, hand-waving thank you to the _other_ evil incarnate that is [Teyla_Emmagan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Teyla_Emmagan/pseuds/Teyla_Emmagan) for encouraging me. Couldn't have done it without you, or that wonderful first prompt.
> 
> Okay, and finally, the verses that Samson and Cullen are quoting are Trials 1:6 and Trials 1:9 respectively.

The man lies still, there on the pallet, and Cullen watches him quietly through the bars of the cell.  The straw which stuffs the pallet is coming out in handfuls, dun against the grey stone. Cullen sees he is thinner, more wretched without his heavy plate to protect him.  Without anything to protect him now; no comrades, no master, no higher ideal.  The withdrawal from lyrium ravages him just as it ravaged Cullen, months and months before.  Samson at least had a foretaste of what that was like, but Cullen would be lying if he said that that he did not have any sympathy for him.  And what had Samson said, in the Great Hall, under judgement?   _It ended as well as anything else I’ve done._  

 

The guards have been put to the outer cells, where they cannot overhear anything except the loudest shout.  Cullen does not want them here, and he knows he will not shout for them, no matter what should happen.  He sighs, holds the bar in one fist, and rattles the key in the lock, hoping Samson will turn over, perhaps look at him.  When he doesn’t, Cullen rattles the lock again and then turns the key, throws the door of the cell open with a clang.  “Samson,” he says in his most commanding voice, “get up.”

“So says the handler.” Samson’s voice is tired, resigned.  “Have a care, Len.  Feels like my legs are afire.”

“If you can still feel them, you’re not as badly off as I thought you were.  And it’s Commander. Now, sit up.”

 

Samson shifts, rolling slowly onto his back.  An involuntary shiver goes through his body, muscles spasming under the thin woolen tunic and grey breeches he wears.  Looking down on him now, something in Cullen triggers a deep memory of a feverish darkness, the warm red stone under his knees, Lee's sharp teeth in the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger. There is a pronounced air of power to Samson still, despite the toll the years of hardship have taken.  Cullen shakes his head slightly and shifts, sighing, as Samson pushes himself up onto an elbow and tries to rise.  He makes a second attempt, then a third, but when Cullen bends and holds a hand out to him, he bats it away impatiently and growls, “I can do it, Commander.”

 

“Probably not,” Cullen snaps, “or at least not fast enough.”  He shakes his head, blows out an impatient breath which turns to fog in the chill air, and squats next to Samson.  “Here,” he says, taking one of the vials from his inner pocket and holding it out to the other man, “Take this.”  But Samson merely looks at him and shrugs, smiling slightly.  “Blue?” he says softly, and chuckles, “That’s a bit like trying to bridge the Waking Sea with matchsticks at this point, Len.”

“It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”  Cullen knows he sounds pleading, and scolds himself for it.  Trying to resurrect his authority over the situation, he thrusts the vial further into Samson’s face and says, “Take it.  It’s not an option.”

 

“There’s always an option, Len.  Always.  You know that better’n I do,”  Samson snorts, looks away from Cullen briefly, then takes the vial and thumbs off the cap.  After he has drunk it, he screws his eyes closed tightly, lowering his head and coughs once, weakly.  After a moment, where it seems to Cullen like the world holds its breath, Samson holds the empty vial out to him.  Another shiver, and then he raises his head as Cullen takes the vial and stows it back in the interior pocket.  He had wanted Samson pliable, but could not bring himself to hold the lyrium over him; now that that is done with, he feels better, more in control.  “You are to serve the Inquisition now, Knight-Templar,” he reminds Samson, who grimaces, “and to that end, we need to keep you in relatively good health.”  Samson merely grunts, then raises his eyes to Cullen.  “Stop pissing about, Len.  You know I haven't got long.  You also know you’re not going to get anything worth shit out of me.  Or are you going to make me remember what it is to serve?”  He sneers, and something in Cullen flips, makes him clench his fists in sudden, ferocious rage.  Samson sees the gesture, and his lips, dry and cracked, pull back from his teeth in a snarl so animistic Cullen’s control slips, and before he thinks about it, he is on his knees in front of Samson, his mouth on the other man’s, kissing him hard, teeth biting into the soft flesh of lips.  

 

He pushes Lee backwards, onto the pallet, one hand holding his balance as he moves forward inexorably, forcing Samson under him.  Samson growls in astonishment, then wraps his arms around Cullen’s neck, pulling him down further.  He arches his head to the side, breaking the kiss, and pulls his head back, exposing his throat to Cullen.  And that is all Cullen needs and he is back, back to those days when it was him and Lee, when Lee seemed the only voice of reason in all of Kirkwall, before the lyrium and the madness got too much for them both.  Cullen pauses a moment, his mouth open above the line of Samson’s throat, a thin spool of spit hanging from his lower lip, the remembered taste of him flooding his mouth with saliva, and then Lee whines under him, a most delicious sound.  Cullen does not hesitate further, just thrusts his mouth forward, teeth and lips finding the taut skin of Samson’s neck, biting down hard, as hard as he can.   _Submit,_ the bite says, _submit and I am yours._

 

Samson’s whole body tenses, his hips arcing up into the crest of Cullen’s thigh.  Strong hands claw at Cullen’s back, but Samson never utters more than another growling whine, tilting his head further away from Cullen, acquiescing, giving his mouth freer access to his throat.  Cullen bites harder, until it almost hurts his jaw, feeling the skin under his teeth begin to break, tasting the sweat and the strange, beautiful taste of the lyrium residual in Samson, revels in the power for a moment before easing back a little bit and growling.  It was always an unspoken thing, this that they have between them; so it was once, so it appears to be now.  But in Kirkwall, it was always Lee that played the part of the wild dog, his actions always half a step from brutality, almost as a counterpoint to the sentimentality he displayed with his charges.  Now, it seems to be Cullen with a taste for the wild, wanting Lee under him, and Maker, the control, it feels so good, so strange and right.  

 

Releasing his hold on Samson’s throat, Cullen pushes up from the pallet, Samson following him up.  They tear at each other’s clothes, both panting, pulling at ties and cloth recklessly.  Neither speaks.  Finally, Samson’s skin is under his hands, old scars and fresh wounds sliding under his fingers, and Cullen leans forward quickly, licking up from the centre of Samson’s chest, along the runnell of dark hair as Lee’s hands, rough and hot, too hot, grab at his ass.  He growls again, a snarl really, and Samson looks challengingly at him for a moment, then ducks his head and whimpers, nodding and tilting his head very slightly.  Cullen wuffs in sudden inspiration, remembering how the game used to go, and ducks his own head into the line of Samson’s jaw, scenting along the line of bone, forcing Samson to lift his chin.  Rough stubble against the bridge of his nose, Cullen breathes deep, inhaling the smell of him, then nudges Samson’s shoulder back with his forehead, further, further back, until Samson is supine under him.  His mouth is open slightly, his breathing rapid, and for a moment, Cullen nuzzles along the line of his throat, above the blossoming bruise of his bite on the skin, watching the thump of Samson’s pulse under his skin.  

 

He licks over the bruise, pressing into it experimentally with his tongue, and Samson flinches very slightly.  Smiling a little, Cullen licks further down the plains and ridges of Samson’s body, sometimes long, wet swipes across a nipple or up his breastbone, sometimes short, pointed strokes along the edges of ribs, interspersing each with a scrape of teeth.  He slides his tongue along an almost-healed cut, tastes blood and elfroot and something else, something bitter, yet cloying.  And Maker, Maker how he aches, he had forgotten what it was to be wanted like this, to want in return.  His cock is so hard he can feel it brushing precum onto the trail of hair under his navel, but he wants to taste Lee first, Maker, wants the thrust of his cock in his mouth, wants to stop too soon and make Lee beg.  That sweet, awful, glorious feeling of biting down on Samson’s flesh, eliciting that growling whimper from him returns to Cullen, and he wraps his hand hard around Samson’s cock, moves his mouth down over belly and hips further.

 

Not relinquishing his grip, Cullen pulls his fist up, slowly, and Lee groans, pushing his hips off the pallet a little way.  Cullen watches from the corner of his eye, teeth worrying at the skin at the point of Samson’s hip, as a bead of precum slides slowly from the bunched foreskin, and as he pulls his fist back, the moisture pools at the crook of Cullen’s thumb.  He raises his head, watching as his hand repeats the gesture, and then moves his head so that he can lap at the liquid, and at the exposed slit of Samson’s cock using just the point of his tongue.  Lee writhes beneath him, fisting both hands into Cullen’s hair briefly, nails scraping over his scalp, and then releases his hold entirely.  “Aw, fuck, Len, fuck.  Don’t tease now,” he mutters, and Cullen, in response, whips his head to the side and bites into the flesh at the very top of Samson’s thigh, just at the point where the muscles join.  Samson cries out, half in pain, half in shock and Cullen continues to work his hand up and down as he bites, harder, harder, moving his head back and forth slightly, working at the skin, sucking as he bites, his mouth welling with saliva again.  Roughly, he hooks his arm up underneath Samson’s knee on the leg he is biting, and then sits up quickly.  Before Samson can do more than begin to protest, Cullen has used the hold to turn him over onto his stomach, using the hand that was on Lee’s cock to push him between his shoulderblades, face first onto the dirty cotton that covers the straw.  Almost shivering with need, he presses forward, over Samson’s half-prone, exposed form and mutters in his ear, “No more orders, General.  You’re my dog now.”

 

Samson pants, his throat working as he swallows, and his eyes squeeze shut briefly.  Cullen smiles, bitterly and smoothes his left hand over Samson’s hip, his right still pressed into the flesh at the top of Samson’s back.  He moves slightly, feeling his cock press into the crease of Samson’s ass, and he thrusts, slowly, the heat pouring off Lee.  Cullen straightens his back, pulling his hand in a stroke along Samson’s spine, then moving it along to his right hip, grasping the skin.  He tilts his head, admiring the lean, wiry muscle of Samson’s back, welts and scars and scabs and bruises wrought into the fabric of his flesh in a glorious chaotic pattern.  Unaware that he is breathing heavily, Cullen moves his hips forward slowly, pressing the cheeks of Samson’s ass around himself, his eyes going heavy lidded as Samson moans into the pallet.  “Remember how this used to be, Lee?” Cullen asks, his voice barely recognisable to himself, “Remember how it was, how you used to growl into my ear and, uh, Maker, how you used to… used to leave bloody tooth marks in my shoulders?  How good that was, it was, wasn’t it?  Remember how good that felt?”

 

Samson looks at him over his shoulder, the ghost of a smile on his lips.  He exhales sharply, snarling deep in his throat as he pushes his hips back into Cullen’s.  "I remember," he mutters, "I remember some nights so hot we didn't need nothing but sweat for slick.  I liked it when you used to stick up for yourself, fight a little."  He pauses, and the smile turns wolfish as he says, "You still talk too fuckin' much though.  Are we doing this, or are you gonna take me home to meet your Mother?"

 

 _Slick._  The one word makes Cullen glance towards his discarded cloak and the extra vial within it.  Last night, he had sat awake for hours, contemplating the liquid within.  It is a sample, procured from Dagna, and the vial that contains it is two-thirds the length of Cullen’s little finger.  As he sat, he had been unable to resist, had uncorked the vial against Dagna’s strict instructions and slipped his little finger into the neck of the glass container.  When he withdrew it, finger coated to the first knuckle in a glassy pinkish film, he was alarmed to find himself salivating.  He remembers the smooth, wet feel of the red lyrium between his little finger and thumb and thinks, _yes._

 

He leans back on his haunches, gives Samson’s ass a final rough squeeze and tells him, “Stay.”  Lee snorts and then woofs softly.  Cullen rises, his knees protesting after being forced to hold his weight with only the thin straw pallet under them.  He pads quickly to where he had thrown his cloak and pulls the fabric through his fist, trying to locate the two vials by feel.  He hears a soft clink from within the pocket of the cloak and then feels the unyielding shape.  Opening the mouth of the pocket, he sees the two vials within - empty blue, still-full red.  He hides the vial of red in his fist and turns back again, dropping the cloak on the floor, stepping again toward Samson, who waits like the good dog he is.

 

For a moment, Cullen stands, just behind Samson, admiring him again.  The moon is full, and the night is clear, so long bands of moonlight penetrate the short windows cut into the rock.  This light, bright and clear, shows Cullen every line and curve, every ridge of Samson’s half-prone body, and he feels his breathing quicken as he kneels behind him once more.  Worming the cork free from the vial in his fist, he pours a little of the red lyrium into his cupped palm, rubbing his index and middle fingers through it, working the fingers together to spread the thick liquid around.  Almost immediately, Samson tenses, raises his head slightly and Cullen sees his eyes widen, shifting about the cell.  As quickly as he can, he corks the vial again, stowing it back in his fist.  

 

Samson begins to push himself up onto his forearms, until Cullen growls low in his throat, the sound resonant with threat.  He stills, half up already, and Cullen uses his two coated fingers to draw a line, lightly, from the tip of Samson’s tailbone down, down, until he is slowly circling his entrance.  Samson whines as Cullen pushes one finger into him, just to the first knuckle, gently, almost tentatively, wondering if Samson will guess what it is he’s using for slick.  But, Maker, the heat pouring off his naked body is intoxicating, Cullen wants to, ah, he just wants that raw, blank heat around his cock, and skin, any skin he can reach between his teeth and Lee, whining and sweating, thrusting back on to him.  Patience, he almost whispers aloud to himself, and pushes the tip of his second finger into Lee’s ass.  When Samson groans, Cullen pushes his fingers a little further in again, slowly, slowly.  Oh, and there, there, the sweetest thing, Lee drops his head onto the pallet and moans, fisting both hands into his own hair, pulling it violently, at the same time as he pushes back further, hips arching back into Cullen’s hand.

 

Surreptitiously, Cullen works the cork out of the vial again.  He keeps his hand moving within Samson, praying that he does not guess, knowing it is a futile prayer as he thinks it.  Sliding the vial along his hand with his thumb, he gently pours the remaining ruby liquor into his palm, then allows the empty vial to fall from his hand onto the pallet.  He curls his fingers back into the liquid, not knowing if the warm tingle is a real sensation or if it is just a fugue which his mind is conjuring for him.  After coating his entire hand, he wraps it around his own cock, a groan escaping him as he does.  He pulls at himself, feeling his cock begin to stiffen again, then becomes aware of a high-pitched, keening, gorgeous sound - like singing, if only he could make out the words.  Startled, he looks around, expecting to see someone at the bars of the cell.  Suddenly, the awareness steals away from him; he accepts the song, accepts the hammer of his heartbeat in his ears, the sound of Lee moaning, the sucking, wet noises of his fingers, the beautiful burst of pain as he grips his own cock far too hard in a hand which does not seem his own.  With a grunt, he is off his haunches, pulling his fingers from Lee, who utters a noise of protest.  Cullen ignores him completely, so utterly filled is he with the sensory world seeming to stream into him from all points.

 

The red lyrium almost functions too well - for a moment, Cullen cannot see straight enough to get himself lined up, and slides the head of his cock down Samson’s perineum, earning a hissing laugh from the other man.  He pulls back quickly, clawing the fingers of his left hand into the skin of Samson’s hip, dragging his fingernails down, causing Samson’s laughter to turn into a noise more akin to discomfort, the scratches drawing blood immediately.  Breathing with difficulty in short, sharp pants, Cullen moves his left hand slightly and hooks his thumb into Lee’s ass, pushing the head of his cock against it, using the presence of his hand as a location to anchor himself.  And oh, oh Maker, he holds his breath without realising it as he enters Lee, completely oblivious to the fact that he is biting his lower lip so hard that the blood wells out, a droplet forming which soon runs down his chin to plop fatly onto the small of Samson’s back.  So, so hot, so perfect, so alive and real finally, he feels as if he cannot ever let this end.  Samson himself, Lee as he once was, becomes a cypher, a figment, nothing and everything at once, bucking his hips against Cullen’s, putting all his weight onto his shoulders and head as he reaches both hands under himself.  One grasps at his own cock, and Cullen is dimly aware of the rough grunts Samson makes as he pulls at himself, but he is more aware of the two fingers which Samson manages to arc up and slide either side of his ass, pressing either side of Cullen’s cock as he thrusts, harder again into Lee.  

 

Cullen grunts, squeezing his eyes shut and whines himself, panting, lolling his head forward where it hangs loosely, rocking up and down with the rhythm of his thrusts into Samson.  Sweet oblivion steals over him again, and then, Maker ohMakerMakerMaker this can’t be, this can’t be it, but Lee is clenching around him and he thinks he thinks nothing he thinks that he hears a howl, like a wolf, like a wounded wolf and then, then there it is again as hecomes _hecomes_ into Lee, he is howling, bends down, biting, feels the blood well from between his teeth, feels the muscles break beneath his hands, knows that this is how it will be, how it is, then knows no more.

 

It is over in a second.  He comes back to himself, panting, his fingers aching from gripping so hard into Samson’s flesh.  The taste of blood in his mouth scares him suddenly, and he swallows reflexively, then feels as if he might throw up, covers his mouth with his forearm as Samson groans beneath him.  The blank darkness of his mind opens, and he looks at the wall of stone, the moonlight seeming to shimmer on it.  Maker, he thinks, What have I done?  He looks down, sees the long rows of the scrapes of his fingernails in Samson’s hips, the bloody bite mark, the flesh already bruising where he had clawed his fingers.  “Lee,” he whispers, not wanting to even touch himself to pull out, knowing that he must, “Lee, are you…”

 

“Am I what?  Going to be sore in the morning?” And he laughs, ruefully, trying to pull himself forward, and just tumbling down face first onto the pallet.  “Yeah, I am.  But I feel a bit better.”  He laughs again and says, “That was the red, wasn’t it, you shit.”  He turns over, onto his back, covering his eyes with his forearm and shivering, then recites, “I have faced armies, with you as my shield, and though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except your absence.” He sighs, “Don’t be a dog any more, Len.  Don’t let them make you their dog again.  Whatever you are, you’re not that.  Whatever you are, be free.”  Cullen sees his jaw clench, and he swallows before he says, “If you can see your way to getting me an extra blanket down here, it’d be with many thanks.  Now, fuck off.”

  
So Cullen rises, and dresses, not looking at Samson as he lies on the straw pallet on the hard stone of Skyhold, wanting to remember him differently, better than he does.  Because he is better, more, than just a dog, just a tool to be used in service and then cast aside when the job is done.  Cullen knows that they all are, and he says to himself as he pulls his cloak around himself,  _Do not grieve for me, Maker of All.  Though all others may forget You, Your name is etched into my every step.  I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself._


End file.
